


Iron Men

by Lipstickcat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipstickcat/pseuds/Lipstickcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories in Winterfell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Men

**Author's Note:**

> Old fanfic I wrote about a year ago.

They were in a drawer of a dresser; the wood turned a grey shade by the dust and bleached by the sun. He had to rattle the drawer and it pulled out in jerks that made the mirror in the frame atop of it bounce precariously. Theon remembered the room, although he hadn't been back to this wing for years. This was where he had stayed when he first came to Winterfell. When he was a ward of Eddard Stark, a prisoner of war, a bargaining tool. The Starks had been fewer then; Robb and the bastard shared chambers, and the older Greyjoy boy was kept away from them. 

He didn't remember putting them away, though he must have done so before he moved to share with the boys later on. Instead of playing at soldiers he'd played at having a family for a while. It never really felt like more than a lie, though Robb called him “brother” when it suited him. 

The little men were cast in iron, of course. They came from Pyke, after all. They weren't finely detailed, but they still had their thin swords and maces intact, the rough shape of a kraken in the ridges of the armour. He ran his fingers over the bumps and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. He remembered playing with Robb with these men; he remembered it clearer than he did playing with his own brothers, the ones whose blood he shared, whose blood had been spilled by this pretend family. 

The leather-bound storybook that had belonged to his mother was still in the drawer too, protected from dust and sunlight in its dark hole. The pages weren't too fragile, though when he lifted it to his nose he was disappointed that he could no longer smell her on them. 

Glancing up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror; his nose was still buried in the cream pages, his mouth hidden. There was a hazy, dream like feel to the reflection, his hair looked grey behind the dust that coated the glass. 

Then the horn started to blare....


End file.
